The Essential Max Brooks: The Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z (44 page)

Sharon is shy at first. She will not shake my hand and seldom makes eye contact. Although Sharon was found in the ruins of Wichita, there is no way of knowing where her story originally occurred.]

 

We were in church, Mommy and me. Daddy told us that he would come find us. Daddy had to go do something. We had to wait for him in church.

Everybody was there. They all had stuff. They had cereal, and water, and juice, and sleeping bags and flashlights and…
[she mimes a rifle]
. Mrs. Randolph had one. She wasn't supposed to. They were dangerous. She told me they were dangerous. She was Ashley's mommy. Ashley was my friend. I asked her where was Ashley. She started to cry. Mommy told me not to ask her about Ashley and told Mrs. Randolph that she was sorry. Mrs. Randolph was dirty, she had red and brown on her dress. She was fat. She had big, soft arms.

There were other kids, Jill and Abbie, and other kids. Mrs. McGraw was watching them. They had crayons. They were coloring on the wall. Mommy told me to go play with them. She told me it was okay. She said Pastor Dan said it was okay.

Pastor Dan was there, he was trying to make people listen to him. “Please everyone…”
[she mimics a deep, low voice]
“please stay calm, the ‘thorties' are coming, just stay calm and wait for the ‘thorties.'” No one was listening to him. Everyone was talking, nobody was sitting. People were trying to talk on their things
[mimes holding a cell phone],
they were angry at their things, throwing them, and saying bad words. I felt bad for Pastor Dan.
[She mimics the sound of a siren.]
Outside.
[She does it again, starting soft, then growing, then fading out again multiple times.]

Mommy was talking to Mrs. Cormode and other mommies. They were fighting. Mommy was getting mad. Mrs. Cormode kept saying
[in an angry drawl],
“Well what if? What else can you do?” Mommy was shaking her head. Mrs. Cormode was talking with her hands. I didn't like Mrs. Cormode. She was Pastor Dan's wife. She was bossy and mean.

Somebody yelled…“Here they come!” Mommy came and picked me up. They took our bench and put it next to the door. They put all the benches next to the door. “Quick!” “Jam the door!”
[She mimics several different voices.]
“I need a hammer!” “Nails!” “They're in the parking lot!” “They're coming this way!”
[She turns to Doctor Kelner.]
Can I?

 

[Doctor Sommers looks unsure. Doctor Kelner smiles and nods. I later learn that the room is soundproofed for this reason.]

 

[Sharon mimics the moan of a zombie. It is undoubtedly the most realistic I have ever heard. Clearly, by their discomfort, Sommers and Kelner agree.]

 

They were coming. They came bigger.
[Again she moans. Then follows up by pounding her right fist on the table.]
They wanted to come in.
[Her blows are powerful, mechanical.]
People screamed. Mommy hugged me tight. “It's okay.”
[Her voice softens as she begins to stroke her own hair.]
“I won't let them get you. Shhhh….”

[Now she bangs both fists on the table, her strikes becoming more chaotic as if to simulate multiple ghouls.]
“Brace the door!” “Hold it! Hold it!”
[She simulates the sound of shattering glass.]
The windows broke, the windows in the front next to the door. The lights got black. Grown-ups got scared. They screamed.

[Her voice returns to her mother's.]
“Shhhh…baby. I won't let them get you.”
[Her hands go from her hair to her face, gently stroking her forehead and cheeks. Sharon gives Kelner a questioning look. Kelner nods. Sharon's voice suddenly simulates the sound of something large breaking, a deep phlegm-filled rumble from the bottom of her throat.]
“They're coming in! Shoot 'em, shoot 'em!”
[She makes the sound of gunfire then…]
“I won't let them get you, I won't let them get you.”
[Sharon suddenly looks away, over my shoulder to something that isn't there.]
“The children! Don't let them get the children!” That was Mrs. Cormode. “Save the children! Save the children!”
[Sharon makes more gunshots. She balls her hands into a large double fist, bringing it down hard on an invisible form.
] Now the kids started crying.
[She simulates stabbing, punching, striking with objects.]
Abbie cried hard. Mrs. Cormode picked her up.
[She mimes lifting something, or someone, up and swinging them against the wall.]
And then Abbie stopped.
[She goes back to stroking her own face, her mother's voice has become harder.]
“Shhh…it's okay, baby, it's okay…”
[Her hands move down from her face to her throat, tightening into a strangling grip.]
“I won't let them get you. I WON'T LET THEM GET YOU!”

 

[Sharon begins to gasp for air.]

 

[Doctor Sommers makes a move to stop her. Doctor Kelner puts up a hand. Sharon suddenly ceases, throwing her arms out to the sound of a gunshot.]

 

Warm and wet, salty in my mouth, stinging my eyes. Arms picked me up and carried me.
[She gets up from the table, mimicking a motion close to a football.]
Carried me into the parking lot. “Run, Sharon, don't stop!”
[This is a different voice now, not her mother's.]
“Just run, run-run-run!” They pulled her away from me. Her arms let me go. They were big, soft arms.

K
HUZHIR
, O
LKHON
I
SLAND
, L
AKE
B
AIKAL
,
THE
H
OLY
R
USSIAN
E
MPIRE

[The room is bare except for a table, two chairs, and a large wall mirror, which is almost sure to be one-way glass. I sit across from my subject, writing on the pad provided for me (my transcriber has been forbidden for “security reasons”). Maria Zhuganova's face is worn, her hair is graying, her body strains the seams of the fraying uniform she insists on wearing for this interview. Technically we are alone, although I sense watching eyes behind the room's one-way glass.]

 

We didn't know that there was a Great Panic. We were completely isolated. About a month before it began, about the same time as that American newswoman broke the story, our camp was placed on indefinite communication blackout. All the televisions were removed from the barracks, all the personal radios and cell phones, too. I had one of those cheap disposable types with five prepaid minutes. It was all my parents could afford. I was supposed to use it to call them on my birthday, my first birthday away from home.

We were stationed in North Ossetia, Alania, one of our wild southern republics. Our official duty was “peacekeeping,” preventing ethnic strife between the Ossetia and Ingush minorities. Our rotation was up about the same time they cut us off from the world. A matter of “state security” they called it.

Who were “they”?

Everyone: our officers, the Military Police, even a plain-clothed civilian who just seemed to appear one day out of nowhere. He was a mean little bastard, with a thin, rat face. That's what we called him: “Rat Face.”

Did you ever try to find out who he was?

What, me personally? Never. Neither did anyone else. Oh, we griped; soldiers always gripe. But there also wasn't time for any serious complaints. Right after the blackout was put into effect, we were placed on full combat alert. Up until then it had been easy duty—lazy, monotonous, and broken only by the occasional mountain stroll. Now we were in those mountains for days at a time with full battle dress and ammo. We were in every village, every house. We questioned every peasant and traveler and…I don't know…goat that crossed our path.

Questioned them? For what?

I didn't know. “Is everyone in your family present?” “Has anyone gone missing?” “Has anyone been attacked by a rabid animal or man?” That was the part that confused me the most. Rabid? I understood the animal part, but man? There were a lot of physical inspections, too, stripping these people to their bare skin while the medics searched every inch of their bodies for…something…we weren't told what.

It didn't make sense, nothing did. We once found a whole cache of weapons, 74s, a few older 47s, plenty of ammo, probably bought from some corrupt opportunist right in our battalion. We didn't know who the weapons belonged to; drug runners, or the local gangsters, maybe even those supposed “Reprisal Squads” that were the reason for our deployment in the first place. And what did we do? We left it all. That little civilian, “Rat Face,” he had a private meeting with some of the village elders. I don't know what was discussed, but I can tell you that they looked scared half to death: crossing themselves, praying silently.

We didn't understand. We were confused, angry. We didn't understand what the hell we were doing out there. We had this one old veteran in our platoon, Baburin. He'd fought in Afghanistan and twice in Chechnya. It was rumored that during Yeltsin's crackdown, his BMP
¹⁹
was the first to fire on the Duma. We used to like to listen to his stories. He was always good-natured, always drunk…when he thought he could get away with it. He changed after the incident with the weapons. He stopped smiling, there were no more stories. I don't think he ever touched a drop after that, and when he spoke to you, which was rare, the only thing he ever said was, “This isn't good. Something's going to happen.” Whenever I tried to ask him about it, he would just shrug and walk away. Morale was pretty low after that. People were tense, suspicious. Rat Face was always there, in the shadows, listening, watching, whispering into the ears of our officers.

He was with us the day we swept a little no-name town, this primitive hamlet at what looked like the edge of the world. We'd executed our standard searches and interrogations. We were just about to pack it in. Suddenly this child, this little girl came running down the only road in town. She was crying, obviously terrified. She was chattering to her parents…I wish I could have taken the time to learn their language…and pointing across the field. There was a tiny figure, another little girl, staggering across the mud toward us. Lieutenant Tikhonov raised his binoculars and I watched his face lose its color. Rat Face came up next to him, gave a look through his own glasses, then whispered something in the lieutenant's ear. Petrenko, platoon sharpshooter, was ordered to raise his weapon and center the girl in his sights. He did. “Do you have her?” “I have her.” “Shoot.” That's how it went, I think. I remember there was a pause. Petrenko looked up at the lieutenant and asked him to repeat the order. “You heard me,” he said angrily. I was farther away than Petrenko and even I'd heard him. “I said eliminate the target, now!” I could see the tip of his rifle was shaking. He was a skinny little runt, not the bravest or the strongest, but suddenly he lowered his weapon and said he wouldn't do it. Just like that. “No, sir.” It felt like the sun froze in the sky. No one knew what to do, especially Lieutenant Tikhonov. Everyone was looking at one another, then we were all looking out at the field.

Rat Face was walking out there, slowly, almost casually. The little girl was now close enough so we could see her face. Her eyes were wide, locked on Rat Face. Her arms were raised, and I could just make out this high-pitched, rasping moan. He met her halfway across the field. It was over before most of us realized what had happened. In one smooth motion, Rat Face pulled a pistol from underneath his coat, shot her right between the eyes, then turned around and sauntered back toward us. A woman, probably the little girl's mother, exploded into sobs. She fell to her knees, spitting and cursing at us. Rat Face didn't seem to care or even notice. He just whispered something to Lieutenant Tikhonov, then remounted the BMP as if he was hailing a Moscow taxicab.

That night…lying awake in my bunk, I tried not to think about what had happened. I tried not to think about the fact that the MPs had taken Petrenko away, or that our weapons had been locked in the armory. I knew I should have felt bad for the child, angry, even vengeful toward Rat Face, and maybe even a little bit guilty because I didn't lift a finger to stop it. I knew those were the kinds of emotions I should have been feeling; at that point the only thing I could feel was fear. I kept thinking about what Baburin had said, that something bad was going to happen. I just wanted to go home, see my parents. What if there'd been some horrible terrorist attack? What if it was a war? My family lived in Bikin, almost within sight of the Chinese border. I needed to speak to them, to make sure they were okay. I worried so much that I started throwing up, so much so that they checked me into the infirmary. That's why I missed the patrol that day, that's why I was still on bed rest when they came back the following afternoon.